


The Night Before in Three Acts

by harper_m



Category: Birds of Prey (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-21
Updated: 2003-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harper_m/pseuds/harper_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Rashoman of soft-core porn. The night before, from three different viewpoints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Indiscretions

**Author's Note:**

> It’s in first person POV. The first segment is Helena, the second is Barbara, and the last is Dinah

I’m taking advantage of her. I’ll probably wind up in hell for it. I’ve thrown out morals, principles, scruples, and all of the always annoying integrity I once barely possessed.

Right now, I don’t care.

 _She’s_ the one who asked me to come over. Said she needed to have a good time, to forget about the whole Wade debacle. Personally, I think she needed to forget about Wade’s parents more than Wade because I never really saw anything that interesting in him to remember in the first place. Of course, maybe I’m biased, but I don’t think so.

I knew Barbara was a lightweight, but I let her keep right on drinking even when it was quite obvious she’d more than reached her limit. But hey, she kept holding her glass out for a refill, and I can’t really help it if I’m a fabulous bartender, can I?  Just because they don’t taste like it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re more mix than liquor.

And, it’s not as if she’s completely unaware of what’s going on. In fact, she seems to be really, _really_ into it. She might not be able to say three words without slurring them into an unintelligible mush or be completely cognizant of her surroundings, but her hands and her lips and her tongue seem to be working just fine. So fine that I’m wondering why I’m even thinking about it at all, instead of just laying back and enjoying the feel of her lips wrapped around my nipple, because honestly, I’m really quite fond of the sensation. Oh, and with the teeth, it’s even nicer. Sharper, but nicer, and I’m not about to tell her to back off. Bruises fade, but hopefully, the image of Barbara doing _that_ won’t.

And, it’s not as if she can help the fact that she looks so fucking sexy that I’m bordering on the edge of completely losing control. Looking up at me, usually immaculate hair mussed beyond repair, scattered wildly over her shoulders and dipping idly down over her forehead, normally sharp green eyes liquid with a highly combustible mix of the lazy indolence of arousal and the searing fire of passion. Her lips are dark red, swollen,  and shiny, and I think I might have accidentally ripped her shirt in half a minute or so ago, because the jagged, gaping edges are just barely pretending to cover the delicate mint lace of her bra and the deep, dark and all too appealing dive of her cleavage. Years of countless teen-aged wet dreams are coming true right in front of me, much better live and in person than they ever were in my imagination.

What have I done? I’ve coerced her into mainlining liquor and turned her into a porn goddess, because staid, calm and always controlled Barbara does _not_ look like that. She doesn’t normally bite, either, but she is now, wickedly sharp teeth tracing a red-hot trail of borderline violent nips up the line of my neck. Just by looking at her, I never would have guessed. Guess you really _can’t_ tell. It hurts, I think, but then can’t really decide because it also feels _so_ fucking good that I might have just asked her to do it again. I don’t think she heard me though, because she’s not doing it, is doing the exact opposite of it, and I think I want to cry.

She’s placing achingly soft kisses in a straight line down the center of my torso, and I wonder idly when I got naked. I don’t remember getting naked, but I know I am. If I wasn’t, then how would I be able to feel the silky slide of Barbara’s skin against my own as she pushes her way down my body, the teasing tickle of soft hair dancing across my upper thighs…

My upper thighs?

I look down just in time to see a wicked glint enter her eyes before she slowly starts to lower herself, and with every ounce of strength I can will into my service, I lunge forward, catching her and holding her still with my fingers wound tightly into the soft hair at the nape of her neck. Her lips are just inches away from my skin, but I can’t let her do it. I can’t pretend that what I’ve done isn’t wrong and simply go along with it because I want it so damn bad I can taste it.

Fuck, I want to taste _her_.

Want to but can’t, and it’s the wrong thing to think and now I’m all distracted and I don’t remember what I was doing, and every single neuron in my brain just fired. That’s… that’s… that’s her _tongue_ , and it’s not supposed to be there. I was supposed to stop her, wasn’t I? There was a moment when I sincerely tried to get her to stop, when I logically and rationally laid out all the reasons why we shouldn’t do this, why she’d regret it in the morning.

Didn’t I?

And, oh God, but I can’t believe she’s got her fingers there _and_ there. This is… where did she learn… Oh, fuck it.

This can’t be me, the quivering, nonsensical mass of nerve-endings and desire masquerading as the girl writhing around on the bed, holding Barbara close with one hand and the other wrapped painfully tight around the steel bar at the headboard. I can’t be the one crying, pleading, begging, and invoking her name in a desperate whimper, held captive by my own desire. I can’t be the one spreading my thighs apart widely in a wanton offering, baring myself to her completely and leaving me intensely, insanely vulnerable. It can’t be healthy to have my muscles tensing with that kind of almost painful strain, my abdomen, thighs, and calves burning as my body contracts in on itself, drawing tighter and tighter and tighter. 

And, oh God. My eyes flash feral and suddenly everything is silver; if my back arches any higher, it’s going to break. She’s still touching me, and I can’t take it anymore, that delicious velvet sandpaper rasp against skin already rubbed raw, and she has to stop before I melt into the bedding.

I can taste myself everywhere. I’m on her lips, her tongue, and even if this wasn’t supposed to happen, I can’t leave her now. That’d be cruel, beyond downright mean, and it’s my duty to make sure it’s a night of equal-opportunity advantage taking. I’ll take the opportunity to take advantage of her, much as I did the opportunity to advantageously enjoy her earlier enthusiasm.

She’s slick, slippery, drenched in sweat, the salty taste of her efforts filling my mouth. Such a contrast of soft, almost delicate, skin over the steel sinew of muscle, and I tell myself not to leave any marks even as my teeth clamp down, as I suck feverishly on a particularly appealing patch of skin.

Were those her nails? Fuck, that stung, four matching lines of searing fire, one set running along either side of my spine, from its base to my neck. The not-so-gentle scratch makes me want to purr, and I need her to do it again. And again, and again, and again, so I growl a sound of encouragement and hope she’s learned to read my mind.

Where was I before she distracted me? Her breasts, that’s right. Just _perfect_ for my hands and teeth, but the options drive me nearly insane and I don’t know where to be or what to do because I want it all, and all at once, but it doesn’t really seem to matter because I think she’s got something else in mind.

Shit, that hurt, and if she tugs any harder, she’s going to rip the hair straight out of my head. I get the picture, and want to tell her but it’s hard to talk with my lips glued to her skin. It’s wrong to be grateful she’s so pliant, but I can press her legs upward, thighs nearly parallel with her belly, and she doesn’t complain, doesn’t even say a word. Those nails are back, raking across my scalp, and I’m surrounded by her. Her taste on my tongue, her scent filling my nose, her skin plastered to my own and it’s the best trip I’ve ever been on. I never want to come down, don’t want to lose the feeling of her clamping down fiercely over the fingers trapped in the deliciously warm, wet vise to which I’ve willingly surrendered myself. I want to crawl into her skin and stay, take up residence in the very essence of Barbara.

Fuck, she’s strong. Strong and just a little bit bossy, but I don’t care. I’m a private to her General, more than ready to submit to her demands. But, she just wants to kiss me, and suddenly the idea seems like one of the best she’s ever had. Her fingers are on my cheeks, framing my face and holding me still, impossibly soft lips on my own, and I want to cry with the sweetness of it. I’m not a crier, not the sentimental type, but I think my very soul just turned into a puddle of love-struck mush.

She pulls back and I want to tell her, want to find the words to let her know the most important truth I’ve ever stumbled upon. So I do, my words as fervid and reverent as the pleas of a penitent.

“I love you.”

I wait, silence condemning me, mocking me, and I can’t look up and see the pity in her eyes because I know it’ll break my heart and I won’t be able to go on living. Not when she doesn’t love me too, when she smiles at me with compassion and kisses my cheek and thinks it’s sweet I feel that way. I can’t breathe, not with the silent laughter ringing in my ears, the unspoken murmur of her demurral. I want to pull away, but I can’t go anywhere, my limbs defiant, mutinous. My skin protests, determined to savor every last second of this torturously exquisite contact even as tears come to my eyes, their unbidden presence shaming me.

But, I’m not going to do it, not going to lay there with my skin flayed open, everything I am exposed and raw, displayed for her delectation. Even if she is drunk, and probably won’t remember a single thing come morning, having the crushing weight of her rejection bearing down on me now is already more than I can handle.

So, I roll off of her, ready to perform my traditional post-coital vanishing act, not surprised but still disappointed when she doesn’t make any move to restrain me, to keep me with her. It’s… it’s… I can’t explain it, what this feels like. Emotional seppuku without even the benefit of a razor sharp blade, and I can already feel myself moving into the shadows, darting down the dark alleys of my consciousness, ones that never have held anything good.

I look up, gathering together all my strength, mentally searching for the perfect good-bye – one flippant enough to convey my disinterest while still carrying just the right amount of venom, slyly designed to hurt. Her face is calm, bland, totally without regard.

With a snort of laughter, I ease myself back into the bedding, drawing the comforter up around our shoulders and reaching over to flick off the light.

She’s asleep.


	2. Ramifications

Sweet Jesus, let me die now. My throat is parched, mouth dry as if it were stuffed with cotton, and my head might just implode. Every single inch of my body aches – bone deep kind of aches, almost like I managed to get myself into a barroom brawl. I feel so heavy, limbs leaden, every ounce of energy I should have possessed after a full night’s sleep conspicuously absent. I’m warm too… no, hot. This is beyond warm. This is like being trapped in a furnace, and as soon as I manage to remember how to move my arms, I’ll push the comforter down.

Okay, so the comforter feels suspiciously like skin. Soft skin that I’m fairly certain is currently covering the lean back of the figure laying on top of me. Eidetic memory has its faults just like anything else, and apparently doesn’t work quite as well when I’m drinking, but I don’t really need it to remember who I’m going to see when I pry open my eyes.

And yes, I was right. Ruffled reddish-brown hair, the sleek sweep of thick lashes and the arch of slim brows, arrogant even in sleep. I’m going to hell – straight there, no stops in between.

It’s Helena.

Helena, Helena, Helena, Helena, Helena… who came to live with me when she was sixteen, who was almost like a surrogate daughter if not at least a reluctantly adopted sister, and now she’s naked. Naked and laying on top of me, and I’m more than thoroughly conscious of _my_ nakedness which means there’s nothing keeping her naked skin from mine. That may explain why I’m so unbearably hot.

I slept with Helena.

Hell. Waiting on me. Lucifer himself is reserving me a seat, probably one of those fucking manual wheelchairs, the hospital kind. Because if I’m going hell, I doubt I’ll do so walking.

I can’t even say I slept with Helena. That seems too pretty, almost. Slept with makes it seem as if we angelically drifted off into unconsciousness with a chaste kiss on the cheek before we turned off the light and kept a respectable distance between us so as to avoid any incidental/accidental touches. There’s no distance between us right now, and if I did anything, I fucked Helena. Big difference there. Big, big difference, and for the thousandth time, I wish I could walk so that I could slip out of here and disappear before she awakens, so I won’t have to deal with what I’ve done. Unfortunately, it’s kind of hard to sneak in my state. Yet another thing to add to the list of embarrassments I have to endure… traumatic morning-afters.

I feel her shift as if she’s starting to wake up, and my heart starts to race. She is, because she’s turning sleepy blue eyes my way, a soft smile on her lips as she reaches up to kiss me. It’s nothing more than just the brush of her mouth against mine, but I freeze, terrified by what the small intimacy means. She expects something now, and I don’t know if I can give it.

She felt it, my hesitation. I can tell by the way her expression closes off in an instant, hooded eyes suddenly veiled and unreadable. In typical Helena fashion, she doesn’t say anything, just rolls over so that she’s no longer occupying my front half and sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Faced with her back, I wince.  Eight fiery red lines sweep up the arch of her spine, and two uneven columns of crescent shaped nail marks bisect the back of her neck. Blue marks that look unsettlingly like fingers circle her hips, and I’m horrified by the sight of what I’ve done. Lose control a bit, Babs?

“I’m so sorry.”

I say it without thinking, one hand reaching out to trail down the length of her back in a futile attempt to take it all away. She hisses and jerks away from my touch as soon as my fingertips hit her skin and I wonder how badly I’ve hurt her. Only, it takes just a second to realize she didn’t move away from my touch because her flesh was tender or sore or any of the number of things it could have been. She moved away because she didn’t want me to touch her, and I fall silent, nibbling nervously on my lower lip as I struggle to think of what to say.

I fail to find anything.

“Sorry I’m here?” she asks roughly, and I cringe. Hurt, hate and pain are bundled together tightly in her voice, simmering on the edge of outright rage.

I shake my head no, barely aware of the fact that she can’t see me, and wonder how I got into this mess. She’d come over, rummaging through my liquor cabinet in response to my failed cheery attempt to invite her for a casual dinner. Known me too long, I guess, to fall for my inadequately veiled self-pity. And, that’s what it was. Me feeling sorry for myself because Wade’s parents thought I wasn’t good enough for their precious little boy, because I saw the world from waist high, because I rolled everywhere I went. Not that I could have married him anyway, or ever even have wanted to. But, I did like to pretend sometimes, pulling on the fantasy of a normal life like it was a $500 sweater. Beautiful but impractical… something _I’d_ never wear, at least.

So, that had been me, moping about because I’d given in to the depressingly tantalizing temptation to think I was never going to be good enough, and she’d sat down across from me, blue eyes painfully earnest as she whispered, “ _I think you’re beautiful, Barbara, and that he’s a fool. If you were mine, no one would ever talk to you like that._ ”

 _If you were mine_ …

It had struck me as odd that she’d even say such a thing. _If you were mine_ …  Strange words to hear coming from her lips, horribly and oddly out of place, and they’d hung there, almost congealed between us, a grotesque and fanciful suspension not unlike a museum curiosity at one of those _‘Believe It or Not’_ kinds of places. _If you were mine_ … Almost as if she’d thought about it, had considered some alternate reality where she and I were together, not as friends and partners, but as lovers. As if the notion of _possessing_ me wasn’t at all a foreign concept.

I mean, she could have said she wouldn’t allow anyone to speak to one of her friends that way, or just simply that I shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of crap from people who didn’t know any better, but she didn’t. She called me beautiful and then she said it. _If you were mine_ …

I can’t get it out of my head, even now. Of course, now I know for certain that she’s obviously entertained carnal thoughts in which I feature prominently. I hadn’t expected this, hadn’t ever really thought about it beyond a few fleeting moments that left me vaguely uncomfortable, wondering how the notion had managed to creep into my mind at all. Moments I’d chalked up to the random independent bursts of outrageousness created for simple shock value by my subconscious, that nasty little creature that spent all day doing nothing more than devising concepts and images with which to terrorize me.

Maybe there had been something in my expression in the seconds after she said it, something welcoming, because after a flicker of indecision, as if she were actually taking the time to weigh out the potential consequences of her actions, she leaned forward to kiss me. She took her time getting there, though, blue eyes locked hesitantly with my own, vulnerable and questioning and not quite sure of herself, but she’d done it anyway. And maybe I’d been enchanted by it all, mesmerized by my ability to cause her such concern and trepidation, caught up in the surreal slow-motion detachment of the scene.

How we’d gotten from there to here was a much trickier proposition. Maybe my more primal side had taken advantage of my lowered inhibitions, because she’d been naked before we’d even made it to my bedroom, my chair valiantly supporting me and a lap full of sinfully lithe and suddenly quite amorous Helena. And after that… well, I don’t want to examine what happened after that too closely; the images that spring to mind at the mere mental mention more than enough to make me blush. I do believe enthusiastic would be a fairly accurate descriptor.

Oh, my God. Can’t escape it now. If only I could get drunk and forget everything I managed to do in my inebriated state like any normal person, this would be infinitely better. I’d… I don’t even want to think about it.

I can never see her again. Embarrassment, this is me dying.

She’s leaving. I’ve been quiet for too long. She’ll play this off like it’s no big deal even though it is. I know it is, know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is a very big deal to her. And how do I know?

I heard her.

I wasn’t asleep. I just didn’t know what to say. I love you, too? I don’t know if I do, so I can’t say it. I can’t say it and not mean it, because as soon as I do that, we’ll be far worse off than we are now. I mean, of course I love her. I just don’t know if I _love her_ love her. That’s a big step. Maybe bigger than I can take. Helena’s not a random somebody I can avoid, some phone call I can duck.

“Helena, wait.”

Oh _shit_. Why did I do that? Now she’s looking at me in expectation, and I try not to let my eyes fall below her jaw, but it’s so, so very hard. Did I leave that line of angry red welts and dark blue bruises down her throat? Unless she did it to herself, I guess I did. What was I thinking? It looks like it was feeding time at the zoo, and she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Actually, I don’t remember doing any actual thinking. That might have been the problem.

She’s got gorgeous breasts. And really, not the best observation I could be making at this moment. Focus. I’ve got to focus. I’ve got to… well, they _are_ gorgeous.

Pull it together, Barbara.

She’s still waiting. Maybe I should have let her go, should have taken some time to myself to carefully plan out what I want to say so that I don’t make any _more_ mistakes.

 _Was_ this a mistake? It is if I make it one, I guess.

She’s getting impatient. I don’t know what to say. I’m so bad at these things.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

My mouth’s got a mind of its own, just running off and saying whatever it wants without checking with me first. Not that the results are all bad, necessarily, because she’s climbing back in bed with me, inching over gingerly, almost as if she’s afraid I’m going to kick her out if she gets too close too fast. Only, now that I’ve got her here, I don’t know what to do. She looks so young – anxious, guarded, hopeful, and scared all at the same time – her uncertainty a harsh contrast to the brazen confidence I’ve come to expect. This is… well… difficult.

“I don’t know what to say.”

If that’s not the least helpful thing I could have said, then I don’t know what is. It’s just vague enough to give her the impression that she’s about to receive a monumental brush-off, even if I don’t think that’s what will happen. What will happen is still a mystery, but I can see she’s already preparing for the worst. She’s stiff as a board, eyes looking down in an intense study of my bedsheets, adeptly avoiding me. 

“Why don’t you start by telling me what you want,” she says softly, voice so small and quiet that it almost makes me want to cry. Now I just want to comfort her, want to hold her and make everything alright once again, which is not necessarily the best plan of action I could choose. I’ve got to think about this logically and rationally.

“I never expected this to happen.”

And, way to avoid her question, Barbara. Make things a little worse, why don’t you?

“Yeah, well, maybe it shouldn’t have,” she mutters bitterly, a deep frown settling over her brow, and I struggle to hold back a sigh. I need to do damage control.

“I’m not _unhappy_ that it did.”

This earns me a glare, indicating that it might not have been the best thing to have said. As far as reassurances go, it wasn’t necessarily the most effective. 

“Well, you’re sure as hell not _happy_ about it.”

I shouldn’t be forced to have this conversation while nursing a hangover. There should be some law against things like that. I can feel a horribly wrong statement just waiting to fight its way loose.

“I’m not in love with you.”

And there it goes... Why not just punch her in the nose? I’m sure it’s equally as pleasant as sitting through what I just blurted out. In fact, I need to finish that thought, before she gets the wrong idea.

“At least, not all the way in love with you. Maybe a little in love with you, or half-way in love with you, but I haven’t been thinking about the possibility long enough to be completely in love with you. I think that I could be, though, if you give me a little time.”

Did I just admit that out loud? Was it the right thing to say?

She’s smiling.

I guess maybe it was.


	3. Revelations

Barbara’s going to catch me, and then I’m going to be grounded. She probably can’t really ground me, since I’m not her kid and she’s not really my parent and I’m not even sure that she does things like that, but if she did, I’d undoubtedly deserve it. It’s just that I’m a teenager. I’m supposed to stay out all night and get into trouble and steal kisses and coerce unscrupulous adults into buying me beer. Well, maybe not the last part. I’m not a big fan of beer. Maybe a couple of bottles of Boone’s Farm. Or, if you’ve got ten dollars, then four bottles of Boone’s Farm. And, if you actually want to get drunk, you’re going to need the whole ten dollars worth…

Well, that was easy. I thought she’d be waiting for me, that stern, disapproving look she wears so well just ready to make me feel guilty. Not that I have any reason to feel guilty…

Okay, so I’m so totally lying about that.

Let’s catalogue my sins. Not coming home, under-aged drinking, gratuitous use of a fake ID, sneaking off for a few quick kisses with Matt, sneaking off for a few a-lot-more-than-kisses with Gabby…

I think I’m blushing.

Thank God I could use Barbara as an excuse to leave at the crack of dawn. I’ve never done the morning-after thing with a girl, much less one who was my best friend. I think I kind of like it, though, and as soon as I go meditate about it and brood about it and dissect it completely, I might just see if I can try it again. It’s a big step, though, so maybe I should get some outside advice first.

That means owning up to what I’ve done, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Barbara seems pretty accepting, though, and of my dual advice-giver options, is probably the best route. Maybe I should go ask her now, and hope that my emotional crisis will go a long way toward making her forget about the whole staying out all night without calling thing. What time is it? Yeah, she should be up.

Whoa… wait a minute. Maybe I shouldn’t disturb her. Looks like Barbara got lucky herself last night. I guess she and Wade worked through whatever was going on with his folks.

Oh, yeah, they definitely worked through it. There’s a trail of clothes from here to the door to her bedroom, some of them in less than pristine condition. Definitely some button ripping going on in here last night. Really Barbara, I’m surprised.

Are those… Okay, something’s not right here. We’ve got combat boots and leather pants, and I’ve never, _ever_ seen Wade wearing anything like that. Are they Barbara’s? When did Barbara start wearing leather pants? The only person I’ve ever seen around here wearing leather pants is…

Oh…

 _Oh_ … Oh, I did _not_ need to hear that.

It figures Helena’s a screamer.


End file.
